It's Like Warfare
by rosieth
Summary: Pre-slash. Sarah likes being with John, but there is a problem. Sherlock. He is always there when she is with John, in conversation or in person. He isn't giving up John without a fight. Sarah's POV, not first person though. Planned to 1 of 3 fics. Enjoy?
1. The Battle of the Night

AN: I had a serious case of author!crisis today, as i've been writing so many silly parody fics. I did have one idea that i've been working on, but the plot bunnies attacked me with this one. The second chapter (out of 2) is already written, i'm in the process of typing it up. I also have outlines for two planned sequels that i might post if i get around to it. I hope you enjoy this fiction. It feels nice to have written a decent bit of serious fiction. Love Rose.

"Are you sure you don't need any help Sarah?"

She look up to see John standing in the kitchen doorway. Whatever quiz show he and Sherlock were watching was illuminating the room, a flickering dance of coloured light playing across the walls. He was wearing one of those sweaters again, a navy one this time. He had told her that he wore them because they were comfortable, when she had questioned him about them. Unspoken was the 'and Sherlock likes them'.

"I'll be fine John. Relax and watch the telly. I'm nearly finished anyway."

She waved her arm vaguely at the simmering pots and pans in front of her. She was thankful that Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to loan her some cooking utensils, for Sherlock and John barely had what would constitute as basics. What they did have was probably thanks to John. It was likely to have been rendered nearly unusable by Sherlock. She had come across two saucepans that were worn so thin that the base was lucky to still exist. It was as though something highly corrosive, such as a strong acid, had been placed in there at some point. Knowing Sherlock, it probably had. After finding a total of 4 spoons, 11 knives and 7 forks that all had an unidentified brownish substance encrusting them, Sarah had thought it best to simply borrow cutlery from Mrs. Hudson. The older woman's knowing smile suggest she wasn't the first person to have ever made this request. Picking up one of the plates that John had set aside as safe to use, Sarah noted that he had set out three of them. Sherlock was eating, which meant no case. That explained why he was watching television. It boded poorly for the evening ahead. No case equalled a bored Sherlock. A bored Sherlock was an irritable, snappy and petulant Sherlock. He seemed to have enough trouble tolerating Sarah on a good day, so it was time Sarah began to prepare herself for the inevitable onslaught. She readied herself for the mood swings and the nasty comments, both subtle and obvious. Then there were the icy stares and cold shoulders. Essentially, it would be warfare. Sighing, Sarah began to dish out the food. It was nothing fancy, just some boiled vegetables and her own tomato chicken creation. John would appreciate it as healthy and nutritious, but no matter how it tasted it would not be good enough for Sherlock. It would not be good enough because Sarah was not good enough. Not good enough for him, in part, but mostly not good enough for John. But then, nobody would ever be good enough for John as far as Sherlock was concerned. To pretend it was otherwise would be living a lie.

Sarah exhaled softly. Why did she keep putting herself through this? Tonight could hardly be considered a date, but it wouldn't be any different if it was. She would still do most of the talking and put in the most effort. John would fret about how Sherlock and Sarah were getting along, trying to stay on neutral turf but never truly satisfying either party. Then, of course, there would be Sherlock, sulking or showing off. Trying to prove to John that he was better company, a better companion than Sarah. Sherlock was the proverbial elephant in the room, whether he was present or absent. When it was just John and Sarah, Sherlock dominated John's side of the conversation. She hated it, but her relationship with John revolved around the other man. John had only applied for the job at the clinic because he need the money to pay Sherlock's bills and to provide a little stability in the craziness that Sherlock surrounded himself with. Their first date, planned and gatecrashed by Sherlock to get further in some case, that ended in unforgettable disaster. Even then, she could sense that to be with John, she was going to need to be prepared for combat with his protective flatmate. It was supposed to be her date with John, yet from the moment Sherlock showed up she felt like _she_ was the third wheel. The imposingly tall man had stood immediately behind them, aligning himself so that he was almost between them. He then proceeded to give a detailed explanation of the act they were supposed to be watching, which although interesting, screamed 'look at how much I know John.' Sarah knew things, lots of things. She was a good doctor and had extensive medical knowledge. All of her previous employers had praised her for her excellent people skills. Unlike Sherlock, she understood people's emotions. She could empathise fully. She could be confided in and John could tell her things he would never tell Sherlock. Not because Sherlock couldn't be trusted to keep a secret, but because there were some things Sherlock didn't even try to understand. He could, if he really wanted to, but he didn't because it bored him. For someone who prided himself on his remarkable intellect, Sherlock was painfully naïve in certain aspects.

"Sarah, is everything alright?"

She blinked, realising that she was standing in the middle of the kitchen doorway, holding two plates that were angled dangerously towards the floor. How long had she been standing there? She almost smiled at John's concerned expression until she caught sight of the amused smirk on the other man's face. He was doing that thing with his eyes that made Sarah feel as though she was transparent. It always shook her a bit, to think that someone could access her thoughts so easily without her permission.

"I'm fine John. I just got lost in thought for a while."

She offered one of the plates of food to John, who accepted it graciously. She then offered the other plate to Sherlock. He had rearranged the furniture, so that his armchair was adjacent to the sofa, with the television over near the fireplace. Hopefully, it wouldn't overheat and catch fire. The tall man gazed up at he, ignoring her proffered arm.

"Lost in thought? Indeed."

Sherlock looked as though he were about to start describing exactly what those thoughts were. John shot him a look that was full of pleading and desperation.

"For God's sake Sherlock, don't start. Take the food and stop being such a child."

His voice was steady, except for a hint of anger that neither Sarah nor Sherlock failed to miss. Sherlock folded his arms across his chest and pouted.

"I'm not hungry."

A sigh of exasperation passed through John's lips.

"Right now, I don't care. One night Sherlock, just one bloody night. Is it too much to ask for? Can't you even pretend to be sociable for me? Is this what you are like at Christmas dinners, because if you are then I can understand why Mycroft-"

Sherlock leapt to his feet at the mention of his brother's name, nearly knocking the plate out of Sarah's hand.

"Don't bring Mycroft into this. This has _nothing_ to do with Mycroft."

He was shouting now, which John mirrored.

"Then what is it about Sherlock? You?"

"No."

The reply was sulky.

"Is it me then?"

John's voice was still heavily agitated.

"Partly.'

It was going to turn into one of _those_ evenings, Sarah could see it now. Sarah placed the dish she was still carrying onto the mantle, nearly upsetting that awful skull that had been perched in its usual position.

"Watch that, its important."

Sherlock was shouting directly at Sarah now, his arm jabbing in her direction.

"I think I should go."

The two men responded to Sarah simultaneously.

"Yes."

"No."

John placed his hands firmly on his hips and glared daggers at Sherlock.

"No Sherlock, she isn't going anywhere. And stop pointing that finger at her. Its accusing, not to mention rude. She didn't meant to disturb your precious skull. How about we take a deep breath, calm down, and have a bite to eat? It looks delicious Sarah. Doesn't it Sherlock?"

Keeping his eyes on John, Sherlock slowly retracted the hovering finger whilst making exaggeratedly slow, loud and long breathes. He then crossed over to the mantle, making a big show out of straightening up his skull, before snatching the plate off of the mantle. Papers scattered softly across the floor, upset by the movement. He then flopped dramatically back into his armchair, the childish pout etched on his face again. John audibly sighed with relief and sank back onto the sofa.

"Cutlery."

The word was spoken to no one in particular.

"What?"

"Do I have a stutter John? Cutlery."

John clearly began to seethe with frustration.

"There is a more polite way of phrasing that, if it is a request and not a statement."

"Cutlery, _please_."

The last word was dripping with venom, but at least it was a start.

"I'll get you some."

Sarah was surprised to find herself making the offer. Sherlock did not make any kind of acknowledgment that Sarah had spoken. John glared at him before making a point of speaking loudly and deliberately.

"Thank you Sarah. Some cutlery would be much appreciated."

It must be killing him, she thought. Sherlock might not count embarrassment amongst his range of experienced emotions, but John certainly did. She tried to show him she was grateful for his efforts, but her smile felt forced and her courtesy nod came out as an awkward jerk of the head. She felt so foolish as she ducked back into the kitchen to fetch the cutlery and her own meal. She prayed that it was still hot, for she had no intention of putting anything she planned on eating anywhere near _that_ microwave. She had heard of several questionable experiments conducted by Sherlock involving the stomach contents of several species of Amphibians. Great thought just before dinner Sarah, she scolded herself. Moving back into the living room, Sarah offered the hand full of cutlery to Sherlock, who stared at the knives and forks as though they were offending him with their presence. Sarah felt a momentary urge to stab him with them, if only to see the look on his face.

"Ahem."

John's eyes were focused on the television when Sarah looked, but his eyes flicked to meet the gaze of Sherlock, who had turned toward the sound. Still holding John's stare, Sherlock reached out a hand and withdrew a single knife and a single fork. He then proceeded to shovel food into his mouth, whilst adopting an expression that said that someone may as well be holding a gun to his head and forcing him to eat. Well, at least he was eating, that ought to please John. Sarah sat down beside John, who took a set of cutlery from the silverware that remained in her hand.

"Thanks."

It was barely more than a murmur. This time, Sarah's smile was genuine. The room lapsed into relative silence, the only sounds coming from the television program and the clinking of silver on china.


	2. It's A Matter Of When

AN: Ok, this is part 2/2. Next fic will hopefully be up within a few days. It will be from John's point of view (once again, not exactly first person). It will deal with John's struggle with his love for Sarah and his love for Sherlock. Until then, Rose.

John had offered kindly to help with the dishes, but Sarah had declined. It wasn't that she couldn't use the help, it was just that she needed some solitude. There was also the potential reaction of Sherlock, which she didn't think John could handle right now. Despite Sherlock's insistence that she was dull and stupid, Sarah had capable of deducing somethings from observation. As she cleared the plates from the living room, she noted the posture of the two men. They were leaning towards each other, heads tilted, spines bent. Both had a hand resting on the arm of the furniture they were reclining on. The hands were so close they were almost touching, although neither man seemed aware of this. It all seemed so relaxed and natural. She was sure that she and John had never been that way, completely comfortable without consciously trying. Her mind was distracted the whole time she washed the dishes. Half formed thoughts drifted through her mind, none settling long enough to construct anything logical or coherent. Warm laughter floated in from the adjoining room, and Sarah could sense the tension that had loomed whilst she was in the room had lifted. A flash of jealousy hit her as she thought about the sides of John she never got to see. Carefree John. Loyal John. Secure John. Those parts of him that no one but Sherlock ever got to see. It wasn't that he was uptight or uncomfortable with Sarah, it was just that he never completely let himself go. Why was this so difficult? This type of relationship couldn't be healthy, yet she couldn't walk away. There were those laughs again, completely uninhibited. Sarah felt a compelling urge to run, to leave the flat and never come back. No, snap out of it, she told herself firmly. She focused on her own breathing for a few moments, anything to bring herself back into a rational state of mind. She had been about to do something, what was it? She searched her mind, looking for a hint. She was in the kitchen, with a tray of clean utensils and crockery. It came to her quickly. She was about to return all of Mrs. Hudson's loaned implements. Neither John nor Sherlock appeared to notice her open the door into the stairwell, a tray of breakables balanced cautiously in her hands. Slowly and carefully, she descended the stairs, making sure her footing was stable before taking the next step. She did not even have to know on Mrs. Hudson's door before it swung open.

"You're too kind love."

The landlady greeted her with a smile.

"It only seemed to fair. We did borrow half your kitchen."

Sarah flashed a gratuitous smile.

"Oh no dear. Its no trouble. I'll sleep better tonight knowing someone is looking after those boys.'

Mrs. Hudson was still smiling warmly, but Sarah could feel her own faltering.

"I heard raised voices earlier and I thought I was about to have a fight on my hands. Lucky that you were there to calm down, like only us women can."

Sarah wanted to correct the landlady's misconception and tell her that she was the root of the argument. But she knew John would rather that she thought it was something unrelated to his and Sarah's relationship that caused the ruckus.

"Very lucky. Cool and calm does the trick I find."

She hoped that Mrs. Hudson would find no fault with her response. Thankfully, she didn't.

"Quite right dear. That's an intelligent brain in that head of yours. It comes with being a doctor I suppose?"

She beckoned Sarah to follow her into the ground level flat.

"Just set it down on the counter, dear. I'll put it away myself. Will you be needing anything else?"

The older woman had that knowing smile that Sarah had seen before. Clearly, it wasn't just Sarah who had some deductive capabilities. She smiled appreciatively.

"Some tea, cups, and milk would be lovely if you have any to spare."

Mrs. Hudson nodded, her expression one of delight.

"Just this once, because it's you. Remind the boys that I'm the landlady, not their housekeeper."

She chattered as she put the requested items on a fresh tray.

"Don't worry about bringing that lot back. I'm about to head off to bed. I'll come fetch it in the morning."

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson."

The landlady escorted her to the base of the stairs.

"Don't mention it dear."

With a wink, she retreated into her flat and the distinctive sound of a lock being turned followed. Sarah cautiously climbed the stairs so as not to upset the milk. She reached the landing, only to realise that the direct access door to the kitchen had closed itself. She would have to go through the living room. The first thing she noticed upon entering the room was that Sherlock had adopted the second spot on the sofa. The second thing, was that John had fallen asleep, his head lolling on Sherlock's chest with his mouth slightly agape. For a moment, she thought that Sherlock had also fallen asleep, with his arm draped over his companion's shoulder, his head drooping so that it rested lightly on top of John's. She nearly spilled milk all over the floor when Sherlock suddenly raised his head and stared right at her. He had an expression on his face that Sarah instantly recognised as triumphant. She knew that look, having worn it herself at times, but it felt somewhat strange coming from a man instead of a woman. No, not strange, just unfamiliar and different.

"Good evening Sarah. Are you making tea? I'll have two sugars thanks."

Any malice or envy that had been present in his voice earlier in the evening was gone. Sarah was a bit stunned at how nice he had managed to sound. She didn't need to guess why, because she knew. The battle of tonight had been won by him, so there was no need to continue the fight. To do so would be a waste of effort and energy. The battle might be over, but the war isn't, Sarah assured herself. It was a fight she could never win, but she couldn't bring herself to concede defeat. She loathed herself for it, for wasting her time and John's. Despite what Sherlock thought, she wasn't driven by love, or stubbornness. She wasn't sure exactly what it was that did drive her, but she knew it wasn't either of those things. Perhaps it was misplaced loyalty, a long-term expression of gratitude for saving her from death by bolt. It was foolish because it was her relationship with John that had put her in that situation in the first place. At the time, she had been intrigued by the doctor. He was a man clearly used to excitement and chaos, yet he was applying for such a mundane, run-of-the-mill job that he was over-qualified for.

She had arrived there again, the root of all the problems between John and her. Yet, it was the very same reason that she and John had ever met. Sherlock Holmes. She knew he wanted her gone and she knew that he would get his way eventually. But she also knew that she would stay until John asked her to go. It wasn't a matter of if, but when. When the time came, she would not cry or make a scene. She would hold her head high and thank him for all the memories.


End file.
